


Sanguine

by Wandering_Aspen



Category: Baldur's Gate, Baldur’s Gate 3
Genre: Angst, Blood, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, Introspection, M/M, Psychological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandering_Aspen/pseuds/Wandering_Aspen
Summary: Astarion reflects on the strange course of his relationship with you and finds himself conflicted.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 248





	Sanguine

They were stupid for trusting him, yet trust him they did. Astarion couldn’t understand it, this trust, this offering of kindness to what was, in most social circles, considered a bloodthirsty monster. Bloodthirsty, yes. Monster? Sometimes. It was a fluid word with ever changing boundaries, vast as an ocean. There were people fairer than him, if that was to be believed, who were far crueler than he could ever hope to be. There were also people far uglier than him who were as pure as Pelor’s light. He blanched at the thought. 

Why? The question ached inside his skull almost as much as the tadpole did. Why did you give him such a precious gift, trust your life to his dead fingers? There had to be some sort of stipulation, a loophole. Astarion brightened at the revelation, the discovery of potential betrayal disturbingly comforting in its familiarity. A loophole, yes of course. As magistrate, he had both loved and detested them. This leader of theirs wanted something from him, that had to be it. No one gave him any gifts without long, long strings attached. They were always pulled on him eventually. They simply needed him at full strength for the battles ahead, for their survival. Surely it was better to be accidentally killed by a vampire than turn into an illithid. He shuddered again at the thought of the transformation. Anything was better than becoming...that. Anything was better than losing his mind and being governed by another’s. It was slavery of a different kind. No, it made sense why he had been given the blood. They needed each other if they wanted to live. 

It was coincidence that led him to choosing you that night. Your neck was lovely, shining in the moonlight. Surely he could take a drink and be gone before anyone even noticed. His mind was screaming, so desperate for sustenance he would do anything to silence it, to satisfy his cravings. He would even jeopardize his future survival—anything to make his cursed soul stop devouring him from the inside out. 

As Astarion bent over you, he realized too late that you weren’t asleep. 

He hated how pathetic he acted, how he had to beg, as though he were with Cazador again. He expected his desperation to be mocked or used against him; he expected a blade through his ribs which, if he were being honest, would have been better than the fate awaiting him, better than being under his master’s control again. Still, he was far too good to die this way, ambushed in the night by some idiot pretending to be asleep. 

But you gave it to him. Blood given freely. It tasted beautiful, warm as firelight on his face, blazing as the sun on his back. It tasted like freedom, so sweet it made his still heart quiver. So used to the fetid taste of rat was he that this was pure pleasure, unattached from guilt. This wasn’t some poor sod lead straight into Cazador’s fangs. This was a gift. Just for him. He was hardly aware that he had been caressing your body, holding you gently as he drank. You felt so fragile, so still. He could feel your heart beating in his chest, could hear the quick susurrus of your life streaming through veins, arteries. 

You were his first, really. Two centuries feeding on vermin and now you, a thinking, feeling, trusting creature. It shocked him how intimate it felt, how wholly satisfying it was to drink from you. He wanted to kill you, kiss you, to love you under the stars, or tear you asunder. The pleasure and the violence were twisted into an impossible knot. 

Then he heard your voice, small and weak, tear through the maelstrom. “Stop...it’s too much.”

It hit him like a mace to the skull. He had lost control. How he hated losing control. Pulling away he breathed in the cold air, felt it gather in his chest like a fist. Your blood dripped from his lips, down his chin. It tasted divine, even now. The whole camp was fast asleep, but he knew his secret was out. He didn’t care. He held you for a moment, asking himself why. Why the gift? Why had it been so easy to lose himself? You’re unconscious now, but he lays you gently back onto your bedroll and departs for the hanging eaves of the monstrous forest for a beast to dull the last edge of his hunger. 

He’s angry at you for being so stupid as to let a vampire spawn bite you. He’s angry at himself for even asking. It was instinctive, this anger, carefully cultivated over centuries of bondage, scraped and carved into a deadly, fine point. Beneath it all he is grateful, elated, even. Somewhere deeper he’s questioning why he held onto you so delicately. 

Later, he finds himself at a party, wearing the mask of the hero for once. It’s because of you. He craves and despises the attention almost as much as the awful wine the tieflings are serving. He will joke and smirk and pretend for all the world that he hates it, but he doesn’t. Not really, although it will take him a while to realize it. He watches you drift through the celebration with the practiced eye of a hunter, sipping at the vinegary wine. Perhaps he underestimated you all this time. You were a maddeningly good sort, yes, but you had an edge to you, a dangerous depth that he rather enjoyed. He flirts mercilessly with you, partly from boredom, partly from a growing sense of admiration. He curses himself for it, of course. You are just using each other to survive, he thinks. Nothing more. Still, when tentacles can spring from your head any day you take your pleasures when you can. 

When everyone’s asleep you find each other. The first kiss is an avalanche, gathering force until the crash. Clothes are taken care of quickly, then it’s soft skin and questing hands and so much warmth he almost feels alive again. It was funny, the things he had forgotten about living. When you bare your neck for him he wants to laugh again. The fading puncture wounds from last time give him pause though, make a tide of shame wash over him. But you insist and his teeth graze your neck. You’re fire in his arms, as bountiful as the forest, so alive so real. He wants his fangs in your skin, wants that strange intimacy that comes from tasting another’s life. The violent thoughts return, now foreign to him amidst the ecstasy. He didn’t want to hurt you, not at all. He didn’t want to lose control, to be a slave to anything, including his own hunger. 

The rest of the night he’s yours but he’s leagues away, keeping his mind off your exposed skin, the thick carotids beneath, and the blood coursing through you. 

When it’s over he stays with you until you’re asleep, studying the curve of your hips. You are as peaceful as the grave. 

Perhaps there were no strings, he suddenly thinks, mortified. Perhaps this really was just a gift. Why? Then, fury grips him again, although at what, he isn’t sure. He convinces himself he’s just being used. For revenge, he can use you too, as an escape from the nightmares, the symptoms. A pleasant diversion, nothing more. But this assessment felt wrong. It was ugly and unjust. He cared, at least a little. Well, perhaps a lot more than that, but why fool himself? Who was he to deserve love of any sort?

He rises, silent as the night, and begins to dress. The moment passes and the intimacy reminds him too much of dark, twisted things. He is always used up and why should this turn out any differently? Cazador’s evil had caused him to always argue with himself as if he were his own judge and jury. It made him want to lay waste to Baldur’s Gate. 

He looks down at you and feels a bright ache in his chest, as though a stake has been rammed through it. What will happen when they return to Baldur’s Gate? If Cazador knows he has even the slightest fondness for someone, it will end in blood. He thinks of being summoned to him, invited to watch him dine on your pretty little heart. He shakes his head. No. The tadpole changes things. He doesn’t have to forsake his free will anymore. Still, it’s best that he leaves now, that he ends this before it goes too far— for your sake as well as his. 

But you call out to him, tease him for not staying to cuddle. He quips back and he starts to realize how hard it will be to walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can also find this story at: https://vinyl-superhero.tumblr.com/post/633627106567454720/sanguine


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